


Legacy

by EnglishLanguage



Series: Tagged s01e14 [1]
Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Uprising
Genre: (semi-dysfunctional friendships but they're working on it), Developing Friendships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentions of Tron's rebellion being bigger than two programs causing small-town havoc, Tagged s01e14, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/pseuds/EnglishLanguage
Summary: In which Tron appoints, trains, and nitpicks about his successor.(And in which the events of Tagged change everything, although Tron doesn't realize it.)
Relationships: Beck & Tron (Tron)
Series: Tagged s01e14 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701577
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tron knows Able just well enough to recognize what the mechanic won’t say out loud: _I’m not broken enough to understand Beck. But you are._
> 
> //
> 
> Or, Able asks Tron for a favor.

This is how it begins: Yori trusts Able.

In the end, there isn’t much difference between a simulations program and a mechanic. Both carry their energy in their hands, overcurious and eager to dismantle, to repair, to _learn everything_ based on physical contact. 

Both invent.

Both create.

Both illuminate the Grid like bright and distorted afterimages of Users, of Flynn’s own all-consuming _color-radiance-thunder._

In the end, there’s very little difference at all between a simulations program and a mechanic, but gigabytes of difference between a mechanic and a system monitor. Regardless, Tron—in agony, on the run—takes what he can get and drags himself to Able’s garage. He ignores that his purpose is to kill, and that Able thinks he's too dangerous, too volatile. Ignores how fitting it seems that, by relying on Able’s support, he risks bringing Clu’s destructive wrath upon the entirety of Argon.

They build reluctant habits around each other. 

Able ferries energy from Purgos to Tron’s section of the Outlands. Tron, when he can, returns the favor and stands guard over Argon. While Tron ‘heals’—picks up what parts of him were left intact by the Occupation, holds himself together against the cracks—Able bites his tongue, pretending he doesn’t wish Tron and Tron’s problems were still confined to the other side of the Grid. In return, Tron tries for diplomacy and hides his own distrust of Able; the mechanic doesn’t deserve Tron's suspicion, but the emotion is habitual, rooted in and written over Tron’s code like a virus. 

In all brutal honesty, he’s not as subtle about masking that as he used to be. 

But he’s far past caring.

Tron understands his enemies well enough to know he can’t risk turning his back on his allies. Not ever, and especially not like this: half-blind and vulnerable, still reeling (so many programs derezzed or repurposed, enslaved; and _Users,_ the ISOs died _screaming)_ , stripped of his purpose and left defunct. He can’t survive another betrayal now. 

To say, then, that Tron dislikes meeting with Able, or Able with Tron, would be a severe understatement.

Positioning himself on the opposite side of the room from Able, Tron forces his shoulders straight, holds his arms to his sides. Chest and abdomen unguarded. It looks like confidence, but it feels like fear. Abandonment. Like he's still on his back, at Clu's feet, bleeding plasma and raw code and forcing himself to believe Flynn would find a way to halt the oncoming catastrophe.

As Able takes a step closer, then, Tron gives in to his weariness and the gnawing urge to back away, and he reclines against the wall, positioned as far from Able as is physically possible. Crossing his arms, Tron tucks the right one neatly across his midsection, the other diagonal across his chest, left hand cupped over his shoulder and beside his disc. It's a blatantly defensive position—Able looks him over, from helmeted face to legs left uncrossed, ready for quick action, and shakes his head, exasperated. 

There's a convenient shelf at Able's side, and the mechanic places a canister of energy, industrial grade, on it, declining to bridge the chasm between them. No words are exchanged. No _expectation_ of dialogue, either, crosses between them, and the resultant silence is emotionless and frigid. 

It doesn’t matter.

Typically, these transactions terminate without confrontation. Able will hand over the energy and leaves, will turn _his_ back first, refusing to have anything to do with Tron's 'obstinate sense of wariness.' He'll go back to his garage.

On his part, Tron will wait until the mechanic drives out of sight before leaving—he doesn't want to be followed. He'll repair the scars crawling through his code and wait until the pain ebbs before focusing, returning to his projects: it's a familiar routine.

His most recent endeavor is the mobilization of a fledgling rebellion in Gallium, led by a minor security function who escaped rectification. The opportunity to establish a foothold within easy reach of the capital is _crucial,_ and time-sensitive, at that. 

So Tron chokes back a vicious surge of irritation when Able stays, pins Tron in place by the throat with a narrow-eyed stare. Challenges him to push back. 

(Everyone expects him to push back; after all, he’s meant to be the Champion of the Grid. He’s merciless, unstoppable, unable to give in.)

(He’s exhausted.)

Something happened. That much is clear. Something _always_ happens, because no population of programs on the Grid has the ability to sit back and accept a military turnover without protest. Clicking on irregular offbeats, Able's circuitry runs hot with substantial lag, and Tron shuts off his passive scan with a twitch of his head. Rage, distress, confusion—threads of instability burn through Able’s code, cutting through him like live wires and projecting outward. Tron has no desire to exist within the blast radius of the emotion. 

“Alright.” He takes the bait. “What do you want?”

“Bodhi,” Able replies, though it isn’t much of a reply at all. 

_Bodhi._

The name settles heavy and familiar in Tron’s circuits, nags at his memory files. In all probability, it belongs to one of Able’s betas.

No program could underestimate Able’s affection for his apprentices. Yori was always endeared by it. Tron... Tron learned to respect it. After all, Able would die to protect his betas, would _kill,_ if necessary, and Tron carries the same, custodial instinct in his clenched fists, in his shoulders and disc. That, and Able rambled about his betas, for consecutive millicycles, to distract Tron after he dragged himself to the garage half-derezzed, unable to speak, think, or recognize he was no longer strapped to a rack.

_Scanning memory files: Program designation: Bodhi._

_File does not exist._

Tron lets his head tip sideways as he ticks back through his memory banks.

_Scanning memory files: -2 cycles from System Time._

There’s a void inside him. An absence, spanning an undefined period time from the coup (from Tron’s near bisection at Clu’s hands) to the first time Able dragged him into an energy chamber, patching over his injuries. In between, he remembers only fragments: pain, rage, intermittent darkness. Dyson. Cyrus, red-circuited and glitching, imploding, hidden away in a hollowed-out mountain.

He knows the name ‘Bodhi,’ but can’t decide from when, or to which program the name refers.

_Scanning: -4 cycles from System Time._

_-6 cycles._

He’s… improved, now. But his code is still tangled with errors, conflicts. “Identify Program: Bodhi,” Tron half-speaks, half-pings, and tries to convince himself that this—admitting to _not knowing_ —is neither surrender nor incompetence.

Pressed against the side of his neck, Tron’s left hand constricts, curling around the phantom shape of the disc firmly locked to his shoulders.

“Bodhi?” Able questions, incredulous. “I’ve told you about him.” His chin drops to his chest as he shakes his head, weary. Almost resigned. “He was a genius mechanic, just a beta. Just voxels caught on the wrong end—” 

Tron fights back an instinctual swell of alarm, silences a dozen heuristics that analyze Able’s turbulent emotions and predict an attack.

“He got caught on the wrong end,” Able reiterates, words forced flat, “of an Occupation sentry’s staff. Because Clu took Argon and you did nothing to prevent it.”

Able is... afraid. Lashing out. With no patience for it, Tron scoffs; the sound catches in the voice modifier in his helmet, disappears in a hiss of static. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why?” Able chokes on the word, on his own incredulity. “A beta was murdered, Tron. Because you hid in the Outlands and watched General Tesler march his troops into the city. All of you security functions, you _sentries:_ you really don't care about anything. Isn’t that right?”

The mechanic takes an aggressive step forward.

Tron doesn’t move. And since he’s apparently ignoring all his senses and what remains of his ability to defend himself, he puts a hard check on his rate of energy consumption. Deprioritizes three of his more combatant subroutines. Shuts himself down in stages until his circuits run cold and hollow, and at least it hurts less than the guilt. “We both know there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop Tesler. I meant,” he bites out, “what do you want me to do about Bodhi?”

_What will it take to make you leave?_

A tendril of Dyson’s malware _twitches,_ heats to blistering somewhere deep inside of his chest. Tron locks his functions rigid against a groan. 

“Bodhi had a friend,” Able says, voice distant; Tron’s auditory processes falter, splinter against a series of flickering glitches. “Beck. I told you about Beck—you remember that?”

“Negative.”

The glitches settle.

Able declines to retaliate verbally, but his mouth pulls tight at the corner, affecting an expression that almost resembles a smile and indicates the exact opposite emotion. “He was Bodhi’s closest friend, and he was there when Bodhi derezzed. He was also there when Tesler shut down the investigation into the murder.” He hesitates, sighs. “I’m worried about him.”

“Another beta?” Tron queries.

“Yes. Beck is... young, far too young _._ He’s separated himself from his friends and work; he’s spiraling. I’m afraid he’ll do something stupid, try to get revenge.”

That, Tron understands.

While in his beta cycles, he watched the MCP delete half of ENCOM’s security suite, was imprisoned and separated from his User, and took his pain out on other programs via gladiatorial combat. He learned to be ruthless, wore himself down to shreds with sharp anger. Talked back constantly, even though he knew the punishment for that was to be bound to a wall as Sark’s plaything. (Tron never screamed for Dyson, but he did have to learn that endurance somewhere.)

Everything Tron has done since ENCOM, since he was newborn, fragile, and shattered, has been _stupid._ He recognizes that, can admit it to himself. Pain ruins programs; from personal experience, Tron won’t be surprised if Beck manages to destroy himself over his friend.

“That’s fair,” he acknowledges, holding his words stiff and blank. And because he can’t escape the faint concern shifting in his circuitry: “Tell me about Beck.”

Able raises both eyebrows, a silent reprimand, or a request for Tron to avoid another lapse and remember the information shared. "To start off," he says, "Beck works at the garage.”

Tron can’t glare, not through his blindness and the dark visor of his helmet, but he jerks his head to the side at an abrupt, irritated angle. He isn’t so glitched that he can’t figure that out for himself.

Able ignores him, continues. “He’s intelligent. Resourceful. Frequently refers to himself as an ‘okay mechanic.’” Pausing, he clicks his tongue, disapproving. “But there isn’t a vehicle on the Grid that Beck can’t fix. He’s loyal, friendly, resilient, and he isn’t afraid to be loud when he’s feeling smart.”

A program who works with his hands.

An idealist, a dreamer, staining his love with grief and calling it real anger. 

It’s a description as familiar to Tron as his own designation.

“He reminds me of Yori,” Able mentions. Only the mechanic’s quiet respect, only the fact that he doesn’t wield her name like a weapon, keep Tron from abandoning the conversation and demanding Able's immediate departure.

“I’d keep an eye out for large-scale mechanical sabotage,” Tron warns, brushing off Able’s skeptical hum, because if Beck resembles Yori in any way— “Or explosions, if he’s feeling dramatic.” At least Beck isn’t like Tron. The beta won’t immediately default to revenge killing.

Able takes another step forward (Tron does not flinch away), denies, “Beck isn’t a terrorist. But it doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to you for advice, Tron.”

No, Able never would.

“I’ve tried everything. I can’t protect Beck from himself. I came here to ask—” The sentence cuts off with a sharp grunt as Able gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hesitating. Finally, he shakes his head, relents. “Can you keep an eye on him?”

Tron knows Able just well enough to recognize what the mechanic won’t say out loud: _I’m not broken enough to understand Beck. But you are._

“My purpose isn’t to tail your mechanics, Able.”

“No? You fight for the Grid, don’t you?”

“I do,” Tron responds. Tries not to sound bitter about it.

He fights for the Grid. For the Users. For the ISOs, the Basics, Clu. For one faction or another, and the only truth that’s persisted throughout the cycles is that _Tron fights._

“Then you fight for Beck,” Able decides, voice hard, and makes it simple. “I don’t like you, but I do trust you. Please.”

_Trust._

Tron considers Beck. He considers Yori, and by _Alan_One,_ too many cycles have passed since he last allowed himself to think of his counterpart. He was incapacitated by Clu, she was derezzed, and no amount of rumination, of mourning, can reassemble Tron’s life from scattered voxels. “I’ll see what I can do,” he acquiesces, stopping short to center himself through cresting pain. He bites down hard on his lip; pixels split beneath his teeth, aching.

“Thank you.” Gratitude, now, emanates from Able, coiled into soft waves of relief and reluctance. Tron’s processes struggle to process the influx of energy. 

Without another word, the mechanic turns, walks out the door.

Tron lets his posture crumple.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck first meets Tron in the Outlands surrounding Argon, but Tron first meets Beck in the depths of Purgos, long before the Renegade’s first act of iconoclasm.
> 
> //
> 
> Or, two first meetings between Tron and Beck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to play around with some reverse chronological order in this chapter. If it's too confusing, lemme know and I'll edit the timeline :D

Beck radiates fear.

 _Good._ Fear is practical.

Beck radiates anger, too, and it’s inextricably linked with determination: a cloying morass of emotion that burns infinitely brighter than Beck’s frigid dread ever will. It’s exactly the type of stupid, volatile bravery that should be handled with caution, like a weapon. 

Fear, anger, determination… no resignation.

Tipping his head to the side, Tron intensifies his scan, pulls down another wall of permissions tucked deep inside Beck’s code. His curiosity leaves his actions rougher, more demanding, than he initially intended. But nothing—not electrocution, not handcuffs, not wariness of the damage-red circuits illuminating the black of Tron’s armor— _nothing_ has managed to discourage the beta. _Nothing_ can kick him down hard enough to prevent him from standing back up.

The young mechanic tries to distract Tron, working at the locks on his restraints as if Tron can’t see him (and though Beck’s circuits run hot, pulsing like raw static, his hands remain steady). If the beta has doubts about his current circumstances, he doesn’t allow them to color his words, but instead runs his tongue in pure hatred; if Tron were to approach his captive, he’s certain the mechanic would spit on his helmet.

_He still believes there’s a way out._

_He believes he'll win._

Tron initially intended to let Beck off with a warning, to permanently scare him off of making a habit out of arson. Tron has interrogated programs before—he knows how to control the ones who give up. 

He’s less certain about the ones who maintain hope. 

Something sharp jumps in his chest, grates up his throat, and Tron bites down on the closest thing to a laugh he’s experienced in cycles. 

When Beck breaks free of his restraints, triumphant, Tron sizes up the mechanic, pulls his punches, allows Beck to wheel around and hold his disc (admittedly, the weapon is useless—it doesn’t have the permissions to derez) against Tron’s throat. Leaning into the familiar ache of the dull burn against his armor, Tron makes his decision. “You won’t hurt me.”

And Beck won’t. 

Able, when he finds out, will.

* * *

Beck first meets Tron in the Outlands surrounding Argon. He’s tenacious to a fault, intrigued by the concept of a revolution, and he never questions why Tron decided to reveal himself.

To take a chance.

Beck first meets Tron in the Outlands surrounding Argon, but Tron first meets Beck in the depths of Purgos, long before the Renegade’s first act of iconoclasm.

* * *

Able asks Tron to watch Beck, and it takes an approximate millicycle for Tron to surrender to his curiosity.

To compare another program to Yori is high praise, and Tron knows that Able is loyal, but the mechanic’s long runtime has left him too jaded to _adore_ easily. Able’s beta—Beck—must be truly distinctive to inspire the emotion. 

So Tron observes.

Stands guard.

Analyzes Beck’s habits: the mechanic spends the majority of his rest cycles sorting through containers of junk code behind the garage, assembling prototypes for a mechanism that looks and scans like an explosive. Beck’s hands are gentle; his mannerisms, precise. And Tron suspects Beck would only construct a new bomb if his current project were to be sabotaged.

Under that reasoning, Tron… leaves the beta to his own devices.

Realistically, Tron never expected so much frustration, so much _grief,_ to stay still and cooperate, but it’s still an unpleasant surprise when he finds himself following Able’s beta to Purgos. 

Tron suspects there are components missing from the bomb, components too dangerous to be abandoned to junk code, on Beck’s easy access. And there exists no city better than Purgos for a shrewd mechanic to locate those components. Beck stumbles through his self-appointed mission, tripping over his own, stubborn determination, getting himself overcharged for parts in three different illegal repositories. 

Leaning against a warehouse wall, Tron shifts his weight onto his heels, resisting the urge to interfere. As he is—hidden in a shell of blackout armor, digital signature shielded, one hand on his shoulder and close to his disc—it’s easy enough to keep out of sight. A wary program with something to hide is nothing new in Purgos.

But if he starts to menace the utility program currently swindling Beck, he’ll draw unwelcome attention.

He chokes on a ragged sigh. Shakes his head. Follows the beta back outside.

Though he’s naïve, Beck isn’t _stupid._

The beta adheres to more populated streets, identifies potential exit routes. Keeps to himself, head down, gait quick and straightforward. 

His precautions are admirable, and in Argon, they would be sufficient. In Purgos, however, Beck’s mistakes are a glaring risk, a signal beacon: _this program does not belong._

Holding a box of equipment with both hands, Beck renders himself vulnerable, unable to reach for a weapon. He never once looks over his shoulder, and it’s Beck’s own luck that Tron is his only tail. Beck doesn’t understand how exposed he is; he doesn’t know how simple it would be to tear a disc through the flimsy material of his unarmored Gridsuit, to split open the brittle mask of his helmet. 

It doesn't take long before Beck makes a wrong turn; he wanders off a plaza and down a narrow side street, away from the safety of the crowd. Tron follows, and the abrupt, sharp-edged onslaught of warnings that flood his analytics are more familiar, more _comfortable,_ than the stagnant silence he's been surviving in since he first arrived at Argon.

Some unspoken tension in his subroutines, left unused for too long, unwinds itself and washes loose. Tron can operate here, with ease.

Beck, however...

A group of unfamiliar programs—their accent lines cosmetically modified to orange, slightly paler than the Occupation’s designated color—stands at the corner of the street. They recline against walls at odd angles, their stances languid, deceptively nonchalant. Their circuits run incandescent with tense heat, raw energy. They’re volatile, looking for something (some program) to burn. Tron pulls to the opposite side of the street, buries his presence in the system inside itself like implosion.

_Look away._

_There's no threat._

Tron feels their attention flicker over him and settle on Beck. 

Beck, who doesn’t cross the street, turning down an alleyway between buildings a nanocyc before he intercepts the group. Beck, who trusts too easily and believes only the best of other programs. Beck, who can accomplish far greater things than a quiet death in the dark labyrinth of Purgos.

Flynn would command Tron to ‘ask first, shoot later,’ to keep his disc locked to his shoulders. But Tron has never been—has never wanted to be—Flynn. He reaches the mouth of the alleyway in the same nanocyc as the first of the orange-circuited programs, and he doesn’t hesitate to ignite his weapon. 

_/Identify_

The orange program balks. 

Tron has no patience for this. He frowns, redefines the parameters of his security scan. _/Identify-designationandintention-immediately_

It’s too easy to take advantage of the program’s voltaic fear. Too easy to follow the trajectory of the ping into the program's code, annihilating permissions and seizing the requested data: defected antivirus software, native to Purgos, associated with one of the city’s factions. Tron's fingers twitch, and he imagines how it will feel to wrap his hand around the program’s throat, to shatter soft-textured skin into voxels beneath his fingers. 

The program stumbles to a halt. Doubles over. His companions freeze, confused and wary, discs half-drawn.

On the exterior, there’s nothing wrong with the antivirus program. Not a voxel out of place, not a circuit burst open and left leaking. On the interior, his functions are splintered, looping and grating. He drops to his knees, gasps dragging hoarse through his helmet.

A frigid, disjointed calm settles in Tron's circuits, and he raises his disc—

“Hey, what’s going on here?”

Beck is nothing if not inconvenient.

Of course the beta finally decided to turn around and start attending to his surroundings. Of course he walked toward a fight and not away from it, and of course he chose to approach Tron—or, from Beck’s point of view, a faceless program on the verge of committing murder. And Beck is still holding his _User-forsaken_ box of tools and parts, cradling it against his chest like a shield.

Reluctant, Tron shifts his attention away from his cowering opponent. “Nothing, program. Move along.” Like a glitch, a ragged, disused noise catches against his voice, rattles through his helmet. _/Movealong,_ he presses, but Beck brushes off the subtle compulsion, frowns. Holds still. 

It occurs to Tron a nano too late that Beck is baiting him, testing if Tron will attack.

And when Tron doesn’t, the beta crouches over the crumpled antivirus program, setting his box aside and grasping the program by the shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, and Beck’s voice is as carefully soft and disarmed as the rest of him. “Can you hear me?”

Tron lowers his disc. There's nothing wrong with threatening a criminal with deresolution, but it's _Beck,_ now, who sits, hunched over, beneath Tron's weapon. And the thought of Beck seeing Tron as an enemy, when Tron has spent millicycles monitoring and protecting the younger program, stings.

“He’s in reboot,” Tron interrupts. “He can’t respond.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing that can’t be repaired.” Something moves, shifts its weight, and Tron glares at the semicircle of programs standing around Beck, _staring_ at him. Closing in, one, tentative step at a time. Since eliminating the threat to Beck's life is no longer an option, Tron settles for defusing the situation. “If he's left untreated, he will crash. Take him to a medic.”

_/Complywithorders_

_/Immediately_

And the programs comply. The one standing closest to Tron cringes, shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge the forceful echo of Tron’s pings. Another two collect their incapacitated friend, half-carrying, half-dragging him away; they're silent with shock, and as they retreat, one looks over her shoulder, face wary.

A flicker of amusement sparks and gutters out at the base of Tron's throat. No, it likely isn't common for the gang's intended victims, however ignorant of the attempted attack, to turn around and offer them mercy.

Beck, still kneeling beside Tron, watches them leave. He still doesn’t stand up, doesn't walk away, and Tron gets the impression that Beck is watching him, ensuring that he won’t go after the retreating programs.

Tron sighs. Loudly.

At the noise, a wave of motion ripples through Beck’s shoulders, leaving him stiff, circuitry pulsing with apprehension. “Are you going to attack me?”

“No.” To reassure him, Tron takes a step backward. Bites back the urge to remind Beck that many programs in Purgos wouldn’t even bother to answer ‘yes’ before derezzing him. “However, those programs would have. Are you aware of that?"

Beck lifts his chin. "Yeah."

Tron deactivates his disc (Beck flinches at the noise) and returns it to its dock. Doesn't bother stifling the harsh note of skepticism in his voice. "Really?"

"I—okay, not exactly, but I didn't like the way they looked at me. I figured I could outrun them on my bike."

"Is that right?" Beck's confidence, displayed bold on the tight lines of his face, wavers. Stabilizes. Tron narrows his eyes. "Then why are you still here, program, and not _running_?"

The beta pushes himself to his feet, crossing arms against his chest. It's a defensive gesture, but it does a poor job of hiding the faint shiver that courses through Beck's body. "You would've derezzed him," he accuses, and doesn't mention that he risked his own life by stopping Tron. "I don't like seeing others get hurt." 

_Like Bodhi._

_Like everyone else the Occupation has killed._

For the first time, Tron understands Able's respect toward this beta. Beck is, to say the least, an unusually noble program. 

Tron positions himself against the wall of the alley, leaves enough room for Beck to materialize his lightcycle. "Go home,” he advises. “You aren’t safe here.”

The statement is a lie.

Beck will be protected until he learns to protect himself—it’s Tron’s responsibility to ensure it.

* * *

Tron modifies the circuitry on his blackout armor, shifting neutral blue to the white hue he prefers. He darkens the sporadic accent lines on his chest and legs. Alters the shape of his helmet. 

He catches Beck studying him sometimes, eyes narrowed with confusion, a wavering half-recognition. In the end, however, Beck never brings it up.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll get yourself derezzed,” is one of Tron’s first admonishments, and it’s long deserved.
> 
> //
> 
> Or, Tron's relationship with Beck progresses in fits and starts.

“You’ll get yourself derezzed,” is one of Tron’s first admonishments, and it’s long deserved.

Beck shakes his head, rolls his shoulders against the weight of Tron’s armor. “What, by working with you?” His voice picks up a bladed edge, warning Tron to back off. Goading him to step closer.

“Hardly.” Tron watches Beck sway, shift his weight between his feet, and knows that if he were to rush the mechanic now, taking a disc to his head, he could knock Beck off his toes without burning so much as a voxel’s worth of energy. The beta has no balance. “Let me rephrase that: if you work against me, Beck, you’ll get yourself derezzed.”

“Okay, fine. Why are you bringing this up now?” Beck’s hands flex, fidget.

He's twitchy. It’s as good as an admission of guilt.

“You destroyed Clu’s statue,” Tron begins, and lets the memory of it, rendered in alternating shades of pride and exasperation, color his rebuke. "But I think you’re intelligent enough to recognize that the Occupation won’t collapse with a single act of vandalism. You—” he stabs a finger in Beck’s direction— “were never going to stop with the statue.”

“Tron, I—”

“You’ve been distracted, these past few millicycs. What are you planning to blow up this time?”

Beck’s silence is brittle, unyielding.

 _Frustrating,_ too, because the beta has no understanding of what's at risk, of how narrow an edge he's blindly walking. If Beck gets caught, without back-up and without Tron's knowledge, deresolution will be the least of the beta's worries. He hasn't considered that Tesler would make an example of Able's garage. That Argon, scorched bright with silent hope, would be left demoralized and shattered if Beck were executed. 

He doesn't know that death at the hands of the Occupation isn't a _noble_ thing, a flashburn of martyrdom and sacrifice on the streets of Argon. Beck's deresolution would be slow and undignified, voxel-by-voxel and scream-by-scream.

“You’re not subtle enough to hide from the Occupation,” Tron grits out, impatience twitching down his circuits. “You’re not smart enough to escape its traps, or strong enough to fight it.” He doesn’t miss the shame that flickers, uneven and dim, in Beck’s circuitry. _Good_. “You aren’t skilled enough yet, Beck. I’m here to teach you to be better.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” Beck mutters.

An apt statement.

“ _But_ you can’t keep secrets from me. No more explosions unless I say so. I need you to follow my lead.”

Tron’s words are insufficient, heavy in his throat, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how to admit to his own concern, doesn’t know how to extract the aching shards of mixed empathy and uncertainty from his code without cutting himself on them, bleeding harsh anger. 

Beck has potential: he’s steadfast and genuine, compassionate. Intensely creative. But he’s rash and hesitant and sharp at the edges, still unrefined. Still lost, still tripping over his own feet. 

He is, all at once, an innocent, a threat, and an unrealized champion. 

“Really?” Beck laughs, waves his hand in a stuttered, frustrated gesture. “I’m supposed to trust you? Just like that?”

Funny.

Tron has the same reservations regarding Beck. 

“Yes,” he replies, and feigns confidence. Asks for Beck’s loyalty and offers nothing in return. Not yet.

Startlingly quick to concede, Beck nods, rolls his eyes. “Alright. No more explosions.” 

* * *

As insurgents go, Beck is beyond unorthodox.

To begin, Beck refuses to derez programs, or to so much as step outside Tron’s headquarters until he’s taught to turn off the deresolution permissions on the Renegade’s white disc.

And Beck has no capacity to tolerate the injustice that darkens the streets of Argon, but he doesn’t allow anger to drive him. His kindness, his hope, are fundamental components of his personality; they linger, stick to the walls, for millicycles each time Beck leaves Tron’s base. 

Tron finds himself... in a good mood. More often than he would like, because it's a shallow cheerfulness, a delicate veneer on top of every failure, every _death,_ compressed in his core like a gravity well. It's a distraction. It feels wrong, like an itch against his scars. (He knows what Yori would say about that, if she were here. Knows that she would laugh, tell him to either smile or put a helmet on until he stopped scowling.)

Beck doesn’t scare off easily. Coaxing the beta into a lightcycle race, Tron nearly drops him off a cliff in the Outlands, but Beck returns within two centicycs, all his doubts neatly swept aside and replaced by white-hot determination.

He’s nosy.

 _Users,_ it’s obnoxious.

“Who were you calling?”

“Irrelevant,” Tron dismisses. For now, at least, it is. 

Later, when _(if)_ Beck is ready, Tron will take the Renegade out of Argon, teach him how to fight and lead in a more hostile environment, a place where sheer distance doesn’t form a shield between him and Clu. He’ll show Beck that they aren’t alone, that there are other rebellions, other programs gathering together to oppose the Occupation. That the programs running the underground in Gallium are constantly requesting updates on Tron’s half-trained successor. 

“Irrelevant?” Beck asks. “I’m impressed, Tron; I didn’t know you had _other_ friends to talk to.”

“Stand down, program.” 

“Are you ever going to tell me what you get up to while I’m not here?” Beck digs an elbow into Tron’s ribs, watches Tron flinch _,_ then gleefully dances out of his reach with a faint huff of laughter. 

“No, Beck,” Tron sighs. An aching curiosity hides beneath Beck’s teasing; it won’t be long, Tron thinks, before Beck gives up his poking. Starts _pushing_ for information, instead.

For now, the beta tries on a tentative grin, sheds his frustration like liquid energy. “Okay, okay. You mentioned something about a new training sim?”

“I did,” Tron replies, and ignores the faint warmth burning through his circuitry. 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything like it. 

* * *

Beck carries himself… differently.

The change occurs in increments, small shifts. 

It begins in Beck’s hands. Where he used to hold them loose and flat, fingers hooked at the ends with a gentle curl, Beck takes on a new solidity. His hands form fists now, more often than not, and although he still has a mechanic’s agile touch, he’s firmer than he used to be. Less expressive, less prone to reaching out, touching, memorizing the texture of code beneath his fingertips. 

He stumbles less in fights, places his feet more carefully. 

His circuitry burns with a new intensity, settling around new subroutines and impressive reflexes.

It almost reminds Tron of Cyrus. 

Then again, Cyrus wouldn’t have hesitated to take revenge on the regime that repurposed him, tore his programming to fragments, and reassembled him wrong. He wouldn’t have hesitated to _slaughter_ Dyson.

And Dyson… _well._

Regarding that entire affair, Tron knows he should warn Beck. The mechanic deserves to know what will happen if he falls into the hands of the Occupation. He deserves a more thorough apology, one that would explain Tron’s scars and his fury, why he dislikes Beck’s habit of bringing his projects to Tron’s base instead of working on them at the garage.

(Beck’s tools, when powered on, make painfully familiar noises.)

Ultimately, as always, Tron can’t find the words.

So Beck carries himself differently, Tron holds himself at a cautious distance, and they drag themselves into a semblance of functionality.

* * *

“As long as I’m wearing this suit,” Beck reasons, “you have to start letting me make decisions.”

His voice is almost confident. His voice is almost pleading, desperate.

An indefinable something caves in Tron’s processes, and he gives in, with one stipulation: Beck won’t be wearing ‘this suit.’ Deactivating the Renegade’s white apparel, Beck disguises himself with Tron’s blackout armor, burns his circuits red. 

Tron tells Beck it’s a test for his fellow rebels, the implication being that if he confronts programs with arrest, with _execution_ , they’ll show their true colors.

The subtle truth of it being that it’s a test for Beck. 

Tron wore this set of armor when he asked Beck to surrender his life to the revolution. When he pushed him into the battlefield headfirst and told him to pick himself up and fight. This armor is a responsibility, a burden, an _ache_ —and he wants to see how Beck bears it. 

* * *

“You remember when you first approached me?”

Tron remembers.

“I said I wasn’t afraid, but—how did you really know I was the right choice?”

Yes, Beck _said_ he wasn’t afraid. Even now, uncertainty bleeds keen through his usual facade; this time around, Beck doesn’t try to evade Tron’s scrutiny with bluster or griping or a volley of rapid-fire jokes. And it’s as close to an admission of fear as Beck will ever give him. 

Tron sighs. “I didn’t.” And that’s as close as _he’ll_ ever get to an admission of doubt. 

“You kept coming back,” he explains, catching Beck’s eyes. He doesn’t like the raw vulnerability sharpening the program’s gaze, creasing his forehead, and has to stifle the urge to put a hand on Beck’s shoulder. To steady the younger program. “The more I pushed, the harder you fought.”

Beck’s agitation lingers, settles—a tangled, corroded mess—between them.

There’s something Beck isn’t telling him.

Tron… doesn’t push it.

Because he chose Beck. Because he recognized goodness and integrity and _strength_ inside of the mechanic, and he challenged and dissected each characteristic, forced Beck to develop them, to fortify himself. To surpass his own abilities, again and again.

Tron knows Beck. And he trusts him.

* * *

“Glitch, you’re insane,” Beck groans, and lets his head thump back to the floor. A deep, rattling pain rolls off his body in waves; Tron can feel it pulsing against his own circuits.

He entertains concern for a nano. Ever since the incident with the other rebels, the vandals, Beck has been… distracted. Contemplative. It’s entirely possible that Beck, absentmindedly, didn’t deflect a blow as accurately as usual, or didn’t fall correctly when Tron tackled him. In other words, this round of sparring might have injured Beck more severely than Tron would normally allow.

“I’m realistic,” Tron retorts, and shifts his entire weight onto Beck (hands curled tight around shoulders, feet hooked behind Beck’s knees, immobilizing them) as the program bucks, throws the last of his drained energy into escaping Tron’s grasp.

“I can fight anyone else,” Beck mumbles, all mangled pride and thick exhaustion. “Can fight fine, I swear. ‘S just you.”

“‘Fine’ is inadequate.” Tron braces both elbows against Beck’s ribs, folds himself on top of his arms. _Flattens_ his apprentice. “I need you to try harder.” 

Unsteady, circuits flickering, Beck isn’t above whining. “After I try harder, can we please stop?”

“No.” He ignores Beck’s harsh groan, adjusts the topic. “You have a powerful right cross. Why don’t you commit to it?”

“Am I not?”

Beck’s disc skidded to a stop at the program’s side when Tron first brought him to the floor. Somewhat desperately, Beck shifts his fingers toward the weapon, moving a pixel at a time. He tries to distract Tron by meeting his eyes, gaze defiant. 

Tron slams a hand down on Beck’s wrist. _/Holdstill_

Beck shakes off the ping, mutters a garbled something about Tron keeping his code to himself. Generously, Tron elects to ignore it.

“Focus on your lower body, Beck,” he suggests. “Maintain your balance, don’t rely on how quickly you can move your arm. When you punch, it should—”

“Should start at my feet and travel up to my fist, I know.” Beck closes his eyes. Grimaces as he shifts his fractured shoulder, testing it. “I need to put my entire body weight behind it. I’m trying, Tron.”

Tron clicks his tongue, rolls off of Beck and lets the younger program curl up on himself, favoring his damaged side. Beck runs a diagnostic on his own body, and the results set his mouth into a stiff, dissatisfied line. “You want me to—what—get as good at this as you?” And the question comes out stilted, skeptical, but beneath it all, Beck’s stubborn determination burns.

“No.” He interlocks his fingers with Beck’s, pulls the program to his feet and anchors him as he sways, regains his bearings. “I want you to be better.”

At last, Beck opens his eyes, straightens out the weary frustration twisting his face. A reluctant, near exasperated grin works its way onto his lips, and he lets his chin drop to his chest, shaking his head. “Alright. Thanks.”

Tron frowns. “For what?”

Beck presses a hand, shaky with lag, to Tron’s arm, shakes his head. Looks at Tron with a strange _understanding._ “I’ve never told you so. Just… thanks.”


End file.
